She Asked For Me
by Sherlockian87
Summary: Yeah uhm ... basically this is the first chapter of You. Always You. told from Sherlock's point of view! Enjoy ;) (and no I won't continue it)


Sherlock Holmes was bored. Not bored enough to shoot up the wall, but bored enough to be a bit grumpy. He hadn't had a single murder case in three weeks. He needed a case, he needed a distraction. Working on an experiment wasn't enough. He needed something bigger, something that would occupy his entire mind. Or something that would at least quiet it.

_No._

He would not resort to that. Not again. He had paid the consequences for his last relapse. He could still feel the sting on his cheek if he allowed himself to enter into that one particular room in his Mind Palace.

_Molly Hooper._

He had underestimated her. He had had no idea that she could contain so much strength, so much anger in such a petite form. He had hurt her, and he hated himself for it.

_The one who counted. The one who mattered most. _

He had thought that she would never forgive him. That she would never speak to him again. But apparently him being almost sent off to a most certain death had ebbed away her anger. It wasn't the same though. There were constant moments of awkward silence. Her usual soft voice and kind comments were now short and quipped. She was on edge around him, and so was he around her. He didn't know how to proceed. How to make things right.

The sound of his mobile ringing broke through his thoughts. His phone never rang. He got up from his chair, grabbing the mobile off of the coffee table. He blinked at the screen as an all too-familiar name blared up at him.

_Molly Hooper._

He didn't know what to do. She never called him. Not once. It was always a text, and usually he was the first. She was never so presumptuous as to start a conversation, she always waited for him.

Swiping his thumb over the accept button he brought the mobile to his ear, "Yes?"

There was no response for several moments, then a muffled noise. A sniffle. She was crying. Why was she crying? Was she hurt? He felt his heart rate go up.

"Molly?"  
More sniffles.  
"I need you."  
He froze, his eyes widening.

"I need your help Sherlock. Tom is here, with another woman, and oh God, I can't let him see me! I don't want him to see me! I don't know what to do! Please help me Sherlock; I don't know how to get out of here."

She was drunk, slurring her words, but also very, very upset. And she was asking him for help. She wanted _him_ to help her.

"Molly, where are you?"  
"I'm in the loo."  
He rolled his eyes, biting back a retort, "What pub are you at?"  
She gave him the name of the pub.

"Stay where you are, I'll be there in ten minutes."  
He rushed out of the flat, his Belstaff billowing out behind him as he pulled it on. _She needed him. She needed him. She needed him. _These words pummeled about in his brain as he sat back in the cab. He wasn't a hero. He didn't save people, he solved crimes, puzzles. But he liked to be needed. He liked to know that he was the one that others (Lestrade) turned to when they were at a loss. Molly Hooper though wasn't at a loss, she wasn't a crime scene, but she was a puzzle; a puzzle that he had tried to solve, and couldn't.

The cab pulled up outside the pub. He asked the driver to wait. He rushed inside, his eyes searching, scanning for _meat dagger_ but there was no sign of him. His hands twitched, he would have like to have let the man know what he really thought of him. Perhaps though it was better that he did not have the chance to. He moved towards the back of the pub, pushing open the door to the ladies. No one was inside, save for a small form huddled on the floor of one of the stalls.

"Molly."

She moved, struggling to her feet. He hurried forward as she opened the stall door, almost falling flat on her face. He caught her. She clung to him, no longer crying but still extremely upset.

"You came. You're here."

She spoke these words as if she hadn't expected him to show up.

"Of course I did. You asked me to."  
She only hummed in response, swaying slightly in his arms.

"Come on, I'm taking you home."  
She started to giggle as he walked her, practically carried her, out of the bathroom.  
"That's a line I never thought I'd hear you say! Sherlock Holmes is taking me home!"

She was cackling now. He swallowed hard as he tightened his hold on her, leading her out into the cold air towards the waiting cab. He had considered taking her to Baker Street but then decided that she would probably prefer to wake up in her own flat. She snuggled in to him as he gave her address to the driver. She was warm against him. He hesitated for only a moment before putting his arms around her. _Why does this sensation feel so foreign yet so right?_  
It was a bit of a struggle, getting her up the three flights of stairs to her door, but they made it. She was entirely unsteady on her feet. Judging by her drunken state he could easily deduce that this was not a common occurrence for her. He helped her off with her coat, before quickly removing his own. He caught her once more just as she was about to tip over.

Leading her into her bedroom he watched as she fell face first onto the mattress. She let out a loud groan; he cursed his body for responding to her noises. _Now is neither the time, nor the place._ He nudged her further up onto the mattress, making quick work of removing her shoes. Her eyes were closed; she would be asleep within minutes. He had done what she had asked. He would leave her now. But she was quicker than he realized. Her hand had reached out, grasping onto his shirt in a vice-like grip.

"Stay. Please. I don't want to be alone."  
Her eyes were lidded, but her voice was clear and firm.

With a nod from him she let go of his shirt. He kicked off his shoes before stretching out beside her. Her bed wasn't unknown to him. He had often slept in it when he had used her flat as a bolt hole. But they had never slept in it together.

A soft sigh escaped from her. He watched the rise and fall of her chest. _How much of tonight will she remember when she wakes in the morning?_ Suddenly she reached out towards him; he took a hold of her hand letting her know that he was there. She curled into him, her small body pressed against his. He swallowed hard again; blessing, yet also cursing, the affects of alcohol upon inhibitions.

She was asleep now. He peered down at her, watching as her eyelashes fluttered slightly. Her lips slightly parted. _Will she still hate me tomorrow? Will I be forgiven? _He had never wanted forgiveness from anyone before, not until her.

He felt his own eyes growing heavy. He hadn't slept in days, even though he hadn't had a case; he had been too wound up for lack of them. But now, encased in her warmth, he felt the delicious bliss of slumber beckoning to him. He put his arm around her, letting his eyes droop closed; hoping, beyond hope, that the sun would rise tomorrow.


End file.
